w/here we overlap
“bird or drone?” is
smoking when it’s dry and 112,
one of the tired ways to feel inhuman
when we are so deeply otherwise.
there’s incoming calls,
a permissive valve and my rotating heartbeat/turn into headlights,
play my urgent heartbeat
a text alert and heartbeat.
I’ll wake up to a grey hawk
they’re almost blue/S traces a placard at the cienega says “it’s my sanctuary”
to the doublewide
i watch my mouth dispense information
under heavy cicada.
moving around piles of objects and information
my face in the pyramid on the crimethinc poster about borders is smooth
and lacks a nose or mouth, other defining characteristics
I like opposition/occupation posters against the landscape, furred hills
and birds out the window,
or what we don’t see out the doublewide.
none of these are very good options
tacking up narratives
do we like this, yes we like this,
the opposition part is key.
in a new room
where we can all talk.
i hate doling out information.
what part are we attached to?
i have all these memories
that are incompletely inaccessible.
in living terms,
beyond or before trauma/memory currents, it’s right but inconsistent,
space, i don’t know,
“I feel like”
handing out phone conversations
written as scripts that turn into numbered lists of why you’re an asshole.
I want to work from a framework they’ve never spoken in.
my dreams are all outlines of power.
w/here we overlap.
i love that electricity moves me towards you.
the future was within reach
in the 70s
except all those communes
w hella people pregnant
and meandering on land
in a border
a kid at a wash
throwing rocks past family though
the grandchildren of the commune still live in Arivaca.
when you move away
do you keep secrets well
what do we have beyond a group process
when/are you moving/out/come over
throwing caliche at the wall making plans.
walking in a dying city
til we say the same words at the same time
it’s incomplete to say we
but i really mean this
how we arrange ourselves/that’s love/an event
we check in, direct the narrative.
It’s arid and communal. it’ll rain and we’ll look at the possibilities.
in a future I break down
in my wife mouth.
my husband is the united
states of America
I’m going to kill him
in his sleep.
my jaws ache for your body material
I process everything, gay
at dinner the best seat
in the house.
weapon or accomplice?
this is the worst nightclub ever
in a womb era I’m jk
the tactic is over-the-knee, drum n bass
a need for offensive strategy
change your name daily
a light’s on
baking soda in water.
the water ran out months ago.
the coast guard stages a mock scenario
anticipating MASS GLOBAL MOVEMENT by sea
the ocean now, shimmering waver,
shimmering border, psychic
paneling the white house
defense glittering dark
blue waves picket
the physical, no ban no wall.
south — north
if the border is surveillance
internal — control
if a barricade can be fluid
sleep beneath it.
Israel and San Diego build walls into the sea.
in a local clique resisting border security
we put water in the desert.
which way does the tide?
the GoFundMe that cannot be posted.
alyn mare is a poet and dj based in Tucson, AZ. their zine :::club theory::: was released by FedEx Office and Print. they are working on a collection of rattlesnakes.